


The Ironhide Treatment

by vienn_peridot



Series: Citrus Basket [12]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alien Sex, Angry Sex, Fighting Kink, If You Squint - Freeform, Knotting, Multiple Orgasms, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tentacles, fighting to fucking, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 07:51:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4869014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet has been overworking.<br/>Again.<br/>Optimus Prime clears out the bystanders and sends Ironhide in to deal with the problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ironhide Treatment

**Author's Note:**

> Ironhide's spike is [this design](http://adhesivesandscrap.tumblr.com/post/126247115466/iopele-i-dont-fuckin-bluff-mate-nonhuman) I came up with when challenged to show what I mean by 'nonhuman spike'  
> Simultaneously feeding my desire to stretch the imagination and to get Ratchet ALL THE DICKINGS, enabled by jenn-oddballpunk and thepeacefulknight of Tumblr.
> 
> Suggested listening: Flesh (Simon Curtis), Fuck away the pain (Divide the Day), Dirrty (Christina Aguilera)

Ratchet had been working too hard.

He’d been warned once by Optimus and twice by Prowl and he still hadn’t listened. So now Ironhide was on the case with the full blessing of both officers. The corridors around Medbay were empty, any patients there were in stasis and Medbay comms had been routed to First Aid for the duration. Ratchet was in his office, just as blissfully unaware of these preparations as he had been the last time this happened.

_Thought it was a once-off did you? You’re not normally that stupid, Ratch’._

Nobody knew how he’d managed to subdue Ratchet and haul him to his quarters by main force. He let them assume it involved punches and a sneaky knockout blow or some sedatives courtesy of First Aid. Ratchet hadn’t said a word either, letting the mechs of the Ark come to their own conclusions.

The truth would probably glitch half the crew anyway.

Just like last time Ratchet was multitasking grumbling at a pile of datapads, reading the one on top while his hands moved on automatic, cleaning and sorting blunt medical tools by feel. Going by the state of the tarp over his lap Ratchet had been here a while. He didn’t hear the door open or close. Ironhide leaned against the frame, giving Ratchet exactly half a minute before making a rude attention-demanding noise with his vocaliser.

Ratchet didn’t even look up.

“I’m busy. Go away.”

“You’re making a habit of being this busy, Ratch.” Ironhide growled, easily hiding the amusement he felt when Ratchet twitched. “A _bad_ habit. What did I tell you last time?”

Ratchet’s helm turned slowly to fix Ironhide with an icy stare that did nothing to quell the good humour and anticipation surging through his frame. He raised an optical ridge and met Ratchet glare for glare.

“ _Obviously_ I don’t care.” Ratchet snarled, turning back to his datapad. His armour rustled, flaring out to make his blocky frame appear larger and more imposing.

“Running yourself into the ground isn’t helping you and it isn’t helping this crew.” Ironhide roared, skipping the posturing and going right for the metaphorical throat. “If you won’t look after yourself then why should they listen to you when you tell them not to do stupid things that get them scrapped?”

Ironhide didn’t even bother trying to dodge the partially-cleaned strut clamp that came flying at his helm, snatching it out of the air and waggling it mockingly at the enraged medic.

“See? Now you’re tossing around equipment that we don’t have the means of properly reproducing right now.” Ironhide deliberately parroted one of Ratchet’s own tirades he’d unleashed on the Twins earlier that week. He wasn’t in the mood to drag this out. “You should know better than to be that reckless with your own tools, _Hatchet_.”

That did it.

The hated nickname had Ratchet surging out his chair in one smooth motion, his favourite throwing wrench already in his hand as he squared off against his tormentor. Ironhide slid the strut clamp into subspace, smirked and wagged a finger at Ratchet as the medic drew his arm back to throw. He was forced to duck an instant later as the wrench left Ratchet’s hand in a blur of grey. Footsteps approached in a rush as the wrench clanged off the wall and thudded to the floor, Ironhide bracing himself for a tackle that didn’t come.

 _Sneaky_.

Ironhide’s forearm rose to deflect a blow to the base of his helm that would surely have knocked him offline if it had connected. He wrapped his fingers around a white-painted forearm, gaining control of the entire limb. The medic’s engine snarled and he tried to jam his knee up into Ironhide’s faceplates in retaliation but the red mech was already moving, straightening up and releasing Ratchet’s arm, delivering an open-palmed push to glass chestplates that got Ratchet off-balance and moving out of range.

The instant Ratchet found his balance again he was back in Ironhide’s face, pressing the attack with a snarling engine that matched the expression on his faceplates. Seasoned warrior that he was, Ironhide was happy to let Ratchet work of the initial rush of aggression and settled into a defensive style with just enough return blows to satisfy Ratchet’s need for a good fight.

Venting heavily they broke apart, backing off a few paces to give their cooling systems relatively clear air to work with. Ratchet moves a few steps to the side and Ironhide paced him to keep the distance between them constant.

_You’re not gonna get the drop on me that easily, Ratch._

“Winner overloads the loser into stasis?” Ironhide asked with a wicked edge to his glyphs as they circled each other in the middle of Ratchet’s office.

A familiar game with familiar rules and one they’d been playing for millions of years.

It was only since they’d come to Earth that Ironhide had been forced to weaponise it in order to keep Ratchet from working himself into an early grave.

“Agreed.” Ratchet snapped. “Although if you want me to knock you out _that_ badly all you need to do is ask.”

“Now where would be the fun in that?” Ironhide asked with deceptive mildness.

When they were both equidistant from the door he lunged, unwilling to let Ratchet take this out into the Medbay proper where he had the advantage of knowing the place so well he could navigate it blind and sensor-numb.

Ratchet’s next roundhouse punch was simply dodged and Ironhide slid around Ratchet’s guard, grabbing him by the wrist and elbow joints of the extended arm to take control of the limb and by extension the mech attached to it. With insulting ease Ironhide fended off blows from Ratchet’s free arm as he steered the CMO across his office and shoved him into a clear patch of wall.

Datapads from the desk and nearby shelves clattered to the floor as the pair of mechs crashed into the office wall, Ironhide with a forearm pressed into Ratchet’s collar assembly and the fingers of his other hand stealing a sneaky grope at the sturdy white waist. Ratchet’s hands were trying to force their way into slightly-too-small gaps in Ironhide’s shoulder armour to either immobilise his arms or reach the large clusters of nervecircuits he liked to fondle for the sounds Ironhide made when he did.

The warrior caught Ratchet’s optics and winked, licking his lipplates and silently daring the medic to look away first. Their fans roared, dumping the obscene amounts of excess heat created by lust and battle-rage. Ratchet’s optics burned brightly with both, although Ironhide could see the lust was winning against the anger that had initially been fuelling his blows. He slid his hand lower, tracing his favourite seams where white abdominal armour met Ratchet’s red-painted hips.

The medic’s primary pelvic armour clicked open and Ironhide smirked at him even though his own was less than a second behind. His cheeky comment was muffled by the CMO jerking his helm forward to cover the warrior’s mouth with his own. The kiss was a messy, angry continuation of their fight and Ironhide’s engine revved hard when Ratchet sank his denta into Ironhide's lower lipplate with more force than was strictly necessary.

“That’s gonna leave a mark, you slagger.” He growled, testing the dent with his glossa.

Ratchet was completely unrepentant.

“I’ll fix it later. _If_ I feel like it.”

Ironhide gaped in shock at the subglyphs implying that Ratchet would be perfectly happy to let the bitemark heal on its own this time. Ratchet seized the advantage, shoving at Ironhide’s chestplates with just enough force to get his weight off the arm pinning Ratchet to the wall. That accomplished, the medic ducked and set his shoulder to the warrior’s abdomen and employed all the strength of his reinforced frame to drive Ironhide back out into the center of the room. It took a dirty jab that sent an unpleasant shock down the medic's main spinal struts for Ironhide to free himself.

The secondary covers protecting both mechs' valves had opened automatically during their brawl that was becoming more about groping each other than fighting, lubricants escaping to slick their upper thighs and evaporate from heated plating. Combined with the sound of grunts and clangs as they fought the scent of their arousal filling the small room drove Ironhide’s charge higher and it became a struggle to keep his spike safely behind his secondary covers. Spike pressurisation was considered and immediate forfeit. As much as he loved the way Ratchet could frag him through the berth that wasn’t what Ironhide was after today.

He gritted his denta and started to fight dirtier, feinting to distract the equally aroused medic so he could sneak distracting caresses past Ratchet’s guard. Slowly he managed to erode Ratchet’s concentration enough to get the upper hand, pinning the struggling medic face-down over his desk. He grabbed the back of Ratchet’s neck and leaned hard on the medic’s back, pressing on his plating in a way he knew Ratchet loved.

“Yield?” Ironhide growled next to Ratchet’s audial sensor.

“Y-Yield.” Ratchet gasped, spreading his legs and canting his aft up to give Ironhide the best possible access to his valve. “Enough with the foreplay! Frag me already, dammit!”

The sound of Ironhide’s spike pressurising dragged a moan from Ratchet’s vocaliser and Ironhide took his time rutting over and through the saturated folds of Ratchet’s valve array.

“ _Ironhide!_ ” That tone promised more violence if the warrior didn’t get on with it.

“Just lubeing myself up, Ratch. You know getting this beast in you can be a bit tricky without a helping hand.”

Before Ratchet could get started in on the topic of Ironhide referring to his spike as a ‘beast’ the warrior distracted him by biting the closest thing to his mouth –some neck cables- and began purposefully probing for the opening of Ratchet’s valve channel with the blunt head of his spike.

He found it with some helpful twitching from the medic beneath him. Ironhide’s embarrassing little whimper at the blissful sensation of Ratchet’s callipers expertly gripping and milking every inch of his shaft as he entered in a slow, deliberate slide was lost in the sound of Ratchet’s long, lust-filled cry. The sudden, intense stretch of the almost-flat head of Ironhide’s spike breaching his valve was apparently very, _very_ good. Ironhide withdrew just as slowly, feeling Ratchet shiver beneath him as the medic anticipated the return stroke.

 _Gonna get at least two overloads outta him before I knot_.

“You ready?” Ironhide asked, “Gonna do you hard then knot you so you can’t get away. Wriggle my way over _every single node you have_ until all you can think about is how hard you’re overloading.”

Ratchet’s vents hitched and his fans roared with arousal. He gripped the far edge of his desk and braced himself expertly for the pounding Ironhide had just suggested.

“Put up or shut up. I’m getting bored down here.”

Ironhide chuckled.

 _That’s a ‘yes’ in Hatchet-speak_.

“Yes Sir.” The warrior said mockingly.

Keeping his weight on Ratchet he began to jerk his hips in short, sharp thrusts. Ratchet’s overload took them both by surprise, striking the medic after less than a minute. Ironhide froze in place to keep from accidentally damaging any of the medic’s tightly cinched calipers with the blunt head of his spike, gritting his denta and snarling, keeping his own overload at bay through sheer force of will alone as Ratchet wailed through his release, clawing at the edge of his desk.

As soon Ratchet’s overload passed and the medic’s valve relaxed around his spike Ironhide straightened up, hooking his hands into the top of Ratchet’s pelvic armour and getting a solid grip.

“Ready for more?”

“Oh _frag_ yes.” Ratchet’s voice was hoarse.

Ironhide’s response was to set up a brutal pace, slamming into Ratchet in a rhythm calculated to bring the medic to overload just before his own charge peaked. They both enjoyed rough interfacing but the last thing Ironhide wanted to do right now was give Ratchet even _more_ work. He was careful, bracing his arms at the last moment and using his grip on Ratchet’s hips to control the medic’s wild bucking so neither of them would end up with more than a little paint transferred between them. No dents or scrapes this time. Lubricant squished from the medic’s valve to run down his thighs in obscene pink streams. The warrior’s own thighs were streaked with fluid from his own valve and he laughed at the vicious tirade of abuse Ratchet hurled at him as the medic fought to push back into Ironhide’s thrusts and gain the stinging scrape of armour on armour that _should_ accompany the kind of force Ironhide was using.

“If you want _that_ then maybe you should come find me when you have a day off.” The warrior said laughingly. Ratchet’s cursing was taking on a familiar pitch. “For now though, why don’t you stop fighting that overload?”

“ _Dammit Ironhide!_ ” Ratchet’s snarling turned into choppy scream and he arched against the desk as he overloaded violently.

Freezing in place with his spike buried in Ratchet’s valve Ironhide let his own overload crash through his systems, the undulation of a valve around his spike triggering his knotting mod.

Ironhide groaned, legstruts going wobbly as the wide knot at the base of his spike began to swell. It expanded until the calipers of Ratchet’s valve were just inside the limits of their ability to expand and then stopped, physically tying their frames together until it depressurised. All Ironhide could do was gasp and shudder as the last of his overload flickered through his systems, intensified by the way Ratchet deliberately clenched around his swollen spike.

“Oh _Primus_ , I forgot how big that thing gets.” Ratchet gasped, circling his hips to test the press of the knot against internal sensors. “ _Frag_ yes, you’ve really locked me good this time.”

“Shut up.” Ironhide forced out through gritted denta as Ratchet somehow moved enough to jostle his oversensitive external node. “And stop _wriggling_ , fraggit!”

To his great surprise Ratchet actually went still beneath him.

“Then lean on me and let me have it.” The medic demanded in a voice sharp with anticipation.

 _He’s in_ no _position to be giving me orders!_

Still, Ironhide did as suggested and let his upper body rest on the strong planes of Ratchet’s white-armoured back. It took a little concentration to let the violence of battle recede so he could relax enough to engage his favourite mod. After two full cycles of his vents and some deliberate groping of the delicious mech splayed out beneath him Ironhide managed it.

A long, happy hum came from Ratchet as slim tendrils extended from their housing in the flat head of Ironhide’s spike. This was a rare mod, made even rarer by the war. It required uninterrupted _time_ for interfacing that meant it didn’t see much use, even when SpecOps could guarantee them a long time without Decepticon activity. The tendrils slid through the mess of lubricants backing up in Ratchet’s valve and Ironhide concentrated on overloading his partner with well-timed caresses and the sensation of his valve being slowly stuffed to capacity by the buildup of his own fluids, the slow massage of Ironhide’s tendrils intensifying the sensation. He ground his pelvic plating against Ratchet's aft, getting as much as he possibly could from the rare chance and driving Ratchet to peak after peak while Ironhide simply enjoyed himself.

After Ratchet had shuddered and moaned through several lazy, drawn-out overloads Ironhide decided it was time to change things up a little. His own charge was building steadily and he could tell Ratchet was nearly done. The medic was making those breathy little whimpering noises that he only made when being driven to the absolute edge of his tolerance for pleasure and it threatened to become painful.

Slowly, carefully, Ironhide located the positions of as many nodes as he could with his tendrils. Charge passed freely between the swollen sensornodes of Ratchet’s valve and Ironhide’s tendrils, magnifying the arousal of both mechs. Ironhide's grinding picked up pace and Ratchet's whimpering became a beautiful high sobbing keen as he got closer to overload.

One cheeky twitch of Ironhide's hips jerked the knot against stretched calipers and Ratchet fell over the edge of bliss, dragging Ironhide with him in the electrical discharge of the strongest overload either could remember having since the war began.

When it ended they were both limp and exhausted, letting their systems reset and waiting for cooling systems to bring core temperatures down to safe operating levels. From the sound of medic's vents Ironhide could tell that Ratchet was just minutes away from slipping into sated recharge.

“You know, next time you want a fight or a frag –or both- just comm me. It’ll be easier.” Ironhide said into the back of Ratchet's neck.

“True. But then we wouldn’t have Prime and Prowl clear the area so we’d have to keep the noise down.”

“Training rooms.” Ironhide was fighting the desire to recharge right where he was. “Fear will keep them away.”

Ratchet mumbled an affirmative noise, already powering down. Ironhide sighed and retracted his spike, feeling the slow stream of fluids run from Ratchet’s well-fragged valve run down their legs. The medic's faceplates were relaxed and peaceful as they hadn't been in months. Not bothering to get up, ironhide opened a line to Optimus. 

::Mission accomplished, Prime.::

::Excellent. Well done, Ironhide. Prime out.::

Ironhide chuckled at how quickly Optimus shut the communication down.

_Time to clean up and carry him home._


End file.
